Wakefield
by Andrei Codrescu
Algonquin Books

When it comes to pitch-perfect cynicism in the key of deadpan, there is nothing so pleasantly chilly as the voice of Andrei Codrescu. The commentaries of the émigré Romanian poet and essayist, heard regularly on National Public Radio, are like the work of a mischievous anatomist. The multisyllabic patter of his hyperbolic Transylvanian accent is the sound of America's innards slapping the dissecting room table.

Sadly Codrescu's prose, without his trademark inflection, is merely multisyllabic and hyperbolic. As a novelist, Codrescu is prolific, original and vulnerable to the same pitfalls as any fiction writer. His plots are aimless, even when elaborately crafted to arc the millennia on the single trajectory of a murderous bloodline ("The Blood Countess"); his characters veer towards caricature, even when modeled on historical legends ("Casanova in Bohemia"); and he leans too heavily on the very clichés he parodies ("Messiah"). More distinctively, Codrescu the novelist seems to be forever tripping over the dark cape of sinister forces he so enthusiastically dons as a storyteller.

In "Wakefield," his latest book, Codrescu calls on the Devil (an old favorite with the author, second only to vampires), places him in New Orleans (a leading lady always) and presents him with a man who embodies the savvy flavor of globalization, but who wants mostly to disappear. Yet when the Devil arrives to facilitate the earthly withdrawal of our protagonist, Wakefield wavers. He negotiates, and wins a reprieve.

In a short 20 pages, Codrescu has paired Hawthorne with Faust, referenced Bulgakov and the Rolling Stones and summoned both "A Confederacy of Dunces" and "The Legend of Sam McGee." It's a good start, indeed.

What follows is a disappointment. During a transnational business trip, Wakefield gives impromptu lectures, has sex, gets hungover and contemplates art, ethnic tensions and how to win his vague contest with the Devil. Apparently he need not part with his soul ("It's a buyer's market!" scoffs the Devil at his offer). No, all our hero needs for another crack at the good life is a carry-on bag worth of souvenirs from his slightly madcap speaking junket.

And it is just slightly madcap. From the misleading town of Typical, on to Chicago (renamed Wintry City) and then through the southwestern desert and up the Pacific Coast to the City of Rain (presumably Seattle), Wakefield bumps along aimlessly, accompanied by caricatures: a lunatic Serb, a bored seductress, a lesbian pair of supermodels and a nefarious tycoon whose underground bunker houses nuclear subs and Elgin marbles. The Devil appears erratically, but grows increasingly disinterested with his quarry. It's hard to blame him.

How this postmodern "Odyssey" is meant to vindicate Wakefield's earthly existence is unclear, but then the rationale for the Devil selecting him in the first place is subtle, at best. Like many a good roadtrip, "Wakefield" is most promising in the planning stage. After some amusing adventures, our seeker returns home untransformed, richer only in the mementos of his quest.

It's too bad that "Wakefield" misses its mark. One wonders if maybe Codrescu has run Old Nick ragged, what with his fascination with the ubiquitous devil. He elaborated at length on the versatility of evil in "The Devil Never Sleeps," and "Wakefield" may be the victim of creative exhaustion. Codrescu has never shied from blasphemy, having borne the wrath of the religious right's henchman, Ralph Reed, who warned him to "stay away from Eschatology." It seems, however, that he has wearied of his demonic muse. Wakefield suffers from a vibe not unlike that of a trigonometry class ... the lesson presumes the positive proof of a previous effort.

In spite of its weaknesses, "Wakefield" comes closer to the distinctively clever edge of Codrescu's nonfiction than did his previous novels. It lacks the juicy soft porn that made "The Blood Countess" a bestseller but will appeal more to readers who revere the swift social commentary of Codrescu the essayist.

In particular, Wakefield is saved by a third character — one who tethers the story and, most importantly, gives it a memorable voice. Ivan Zamyatin, a paradoxically bon vivant soviet émigré, is Wakefield's only real friend. We meet him just after the deal is sealed with the Devil and Wakefield heads for the local bar. We learn that the two met during a stay in a Siberian research outpost, where they shared a confessor in the corpse of a dead meteorologist and generally became lifelong friends.

While Wakefield fancies himself a nomad and tries desperately to disassociate himself from tourists ("a sad fin-de-siecle tribe that wanders the world looking for an excuse to return home as soon as possible"), Zamyatin delights in frank socializing ("I leave many clues, so people will say 'Ivan was just here a minute ago, I gave him a parking ticket, I talked to him at the bar, he's alive, he's OK'").

The temptation to conflate Codrescu with the fictional odd couple is palpable. Wakefield is a motivational speaker, whose "nonpositive points of views" are much in demand in the excessive exuberance of corporate America and who belongs "to the Ted Barrigan school of 'I can't wait to hear what I'm going to say next.'" (We won't quibble that Codrescu once said the same thing of rabble rouser Emma Goldman — it's still a good line.) Zamyatin is a philosophizing taxi driver who thrives in his adopted country and second language and patronizes his roots: "I know my people: gloomy Slavs, people with souls as dark as Leningrad in December. What we should do is parachute one hundred thousand psychiatrists in there and put the whole place in therapy."

Somewhere between those brands of disingenuousness and enthusiasm is the echo of the poet Codrescu, who was banished from Bucharest, landed at Ginsburg's doorstep and has been chuckling (silently) ever since.

The question is, why channel the voice, when you can have it direct?

— Elizabeth Kiem (eckiem@yahoo.com)